


'Round in Circles I'd Go

by canardroublard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Illya is the only one who is any good at feelings, Mild Angst, Multi, POV Alternating, Undercover as Married, Unresolved Sexual Tension, character exploration, focuses on Napoleon/Gaby, fuck yeah bed sharing, trophy husband, unrepentantly tropey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: Napoleon Solo, if he's being totally honest, is enjoying the hell out of this mission. He gets to lounge around in the sun, flirt with everyone, and pretend not to speak a word of German.  Plus being 'married' to Gaby certainly makes for good company. Everything would be perfect, if he hadn't ended up developing for his partners what is beginning to feel suspiciously like feelings. That's becoming rather inconvenient.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/gifts).



Napoleon Solo, if he's being totally honest, is enjoying the hell out of this mission so far.

Of course, Napoleon Solo generally enjoys the hell out of any scenario that lets him lounge poolside, soaking up the sun and flirting with everyone who walks by. It's practically his natural habitat. The fact that two of said passers-by are suspected ex-Nazis, living under assumed names while quietly collecting funds to invest in chemical weapons research is a significant downside, but hey, that's the crowd you get at an Argentine resort which is known to be favoured by German expats of certain political leanings. _C'est la vie._ And if all goes according to plan, they'll be putting the as-of-yet unknown duo behind bars soon, so that at least is something to look forward to.

An additional perk of this mission is that his cover, Jack Miller, an American of rather large inheritance but rather dim mind, speaks no German, letting Napoleon eavesdrop on the conversations swirling around him while the Germans remain convinced that he represents no threat to their privacy. This first morning the only things he's heard are snippets of seemingly trivial gossip, but Napoleon listens with amusement to the convoluted interpersonal dramas of the close-knit resort community. So far he's learned that Rosa Oster, that no-good tramp, is suspected of sleeping with the incorrigible Karl Fischer, while Herr Fischer's wife is widely known to be flirting with Wilhelm Liebknecht, who, according to the snickers of one woman in the next lounge chair, has a limp dick.

He's also learned that he and Gaby have already made waves, despite having only arrived late last night. A few times he's caught the tail end of giggled conversations about the handsome new American, about how it's such a shame that he's married because Eva Gehre would love to see for herself what those swim trunks are hiding.

Yes, Napoleon is having the time of his life.

When a shadow falls over his closed eyes Napoleon opens one, intending to either scold or charm whoever has blocked his sun. He'll figure out which option when the time comes. Instead of some persistent waiter or another admirer, however, he finds Gaby before him, round, white sunglasses and round, white hat covering the upper half of her face, mouth pulled into an amused smirk.

"Darling," he greets her, shuffling over a little in his chair and patting the space this creates in invitation for her to sit. After a moment's hesitation she settles next to him, folding in on herself and gliding downwards with that hint of dancer's grace which still catches him by surprise at odd moments. He knows she was a dancer, of course, but it's sometimes hard to reconcile his first image of her, the grease-stained, tough-as-nails car mechanic, with this other facet of her past. Her hip rests against his, and Napoleon finds himself glancing down at this point of contact before he turns his gaze back to her face.

"I was looking everywhere for you," she says, leaning across him to snatch his coffee. "Woke up and you were already gone."

"You were really out of it, figured I'd slip out and let you sleep some more."

Gaby hums in appreciation around a sip of coffee. "Made any friends yet?"

"Oh, you know me. I'm a very friendly guy." The bit of poking fun at himself is worth it for the way Gaby's mouth twitches in amusement. "Don't get any of the German, but I just smile and nod." Meaning that he's been overhearing plenty. Gaby makes another little noise in her throat, this time one of understanding. "Have you eaten?"

She shakes her head. "I just woke up. Figured I should track you down first. Make sure you hadn't gotten yourself into any trouble." Her tone is playful, but underneath it Napoleon can hear a genuine rebuke.

"Should've left a note," he says, which Gaby confirms with a tilt of her head. "Sorry." Having never done this with Gaby before, Napoleon still isn't fully used to the whole 'working with a partner' thing.

"You can make it up to me by showing me where the food is. I'm sure you already found it." Gaby grins at him, a saucy flash of teeth, and somehow she's almost blinding in her joy, all white teeth and white sunglasses and white hat shining in the bright sun, and maybe more than a little of something brilliant that's just _her_. One dainty yet strong hand wraps around his and tugs as Gaby unfurls herself in another moment of effortless grace until she's standing above him again, urging him up to meet her. Napoleon obeys without hesitation.

"Oh, Mr. Miller," comes a voice from behind them. Napoleon turns to find Herr Fischer, whom he'd met at breakfast. "This must be the wife you spent so much time telling me about. And I can see why. You've found yourself a pretty little one indeed." Ah, yes, Herr Fischer is the resort's resident flirt. Napoleon feels Gaby tense beside him, then wind her hand into the crook of his arm.

"Have you been telling stories, darling?" Gaby’s tone, to her credit, conveys nothing but affection and bemusement.

"Only good ones, I promise," Napoleon assures, grinning when she leans closer and nudges him with her shoulder. "And believe me, Herr Fischer, Gaby is the one who did all the finding. I'm just the lucky sap she chose."

Introductions are made, hands are shaken, pleasantries exchanged, and Fischer begins to ask Gaby about her family, which she answers with the modified version of her history which Waverly had put together, taking advantage of the fact that Rudi's name apparently carries some cachet in these circles, and his death was mysterious enough to not out their involvement. As the conversation begins to reach a natural end, Fischer sends Napoleon a wink which makes him want to take a shower.

"Now, make sure to give your Gaby a kiss. She's entirely too pretty this morning to go unremarked upon."

Despite his general distaste at Fischer, Napoleon glances down at Gaby, curious about how she's handling the flirting. She's already looking at him, corners of her mouth turned up slightly. Impish.

"You know, Herr Fischer," she gasps in mock affront, "he hasn't done anything of the sort yet." Napoleon narrows his eyes at her. He's seen her play this game with Illya enough times to know exactly what she's doing. When the Russian pushes too much, gets too cocky or just generally irritates her, this sort of surprise flirting works more often than not, catching him wrong-footed. And this time she has the audacity to tilt her head and wink at him.

But he isn't Illya, so Napoleon decides to see how she handles taking what she dishes out.

"How thoughtless of me, darling," Napoleon purrs, letting his eyes walk up and down her body. She huffs in amusement. Now that he lets himself look, he finds that Fischer is right, actually. She does look entirely too pretty. "You look absolutely lovely this morning." Then, because he's in a fantastic mood and Gaby is still grinning, he decides to cap off the compliment by leaning down to kiss her cheek. It's a little awkward, since she's rather short and he has to duck under the brim of her hat while also taking care not to bump his nose against her sunglasses, but Napoleon is nothing if not skilled at this sort of manoeuvre.

The instant that his lips touch her soft skin, Gaby's breath hitches. Then she _blushes._ Oh, that is an unexpected delight. If she looked pretty before, she's impossibly sweet when her cheeks flush a delicate pink. While he withdraws her mouth wavers, as if she finds herself wanting to smile but not wanting to want to smile, before she bites her lip, looking away and scowling in self-reproach. But when he shifts slightly, unsure if he's overstepped and deciding to give her some space, the hand around his arm tightens, keeping him close.

Napoleon is suddenly aware of an odd sensation in his chest, something warm and a little flighty which has been awakened at the sight of Gaby so undone by such an innocent gesture. By something _he_ has done. This magnificent young woman, who's got more grit than almost anyone else he's ever known, who has already learned to field strip a pistol faster than him and Peril, who can outdrive them all and who will someday, he can just tell, be able to outshoot them all. But he's managed to disarm her, if only for a moment, with a kiss.

Napoleon's confused wonder is cut off, thankfully, when Fischer begins to say something, though Napoleon misses the first few words, having been completely distracted by the woman at his side. He shakes himself, turning away from Gaby and trying to ignore the slight weight and warmth of her hand curled around his arm. It's much more difficult than it should be.

"Yes, I really am the luckiest guy alive," Napoleon agrees through his best smile. They chat with Fischer for a few more minutes, then manage to extricate themselves.

This is just a mission. He needs to remember that. Napoleon still hasn't gotten an entirely straight answer out of Gaby about what the hell is going on between her and Peril, but inserting himself into the middle of _that_ particular situation, whatever it is, seems like one of the fastest ways possible to ruin the tentative three-person partnership which they have established over the past six months.

As Napoleon lets his eyes roam in a perimeter sweep, his gaze pauses on the unmistakable, towering shape of Illya, who has somehow managed to find a resort uniform that actually fits him. The Russian moves across the pool deck with surprising deftness, bowing dutifully to present a serving tray to a couple who are lounging in the sun. When he turns to walk back towards the main building Illya finds Napoleon's eyes, steps faltering for a moment.

This is when Napoleon's attention is dragged back to the way that Gaby is _still_ clinging to his arm. They've stopped for a moment as Gaby introduces herself to someone, oblivious to Illya's presence. She is standing close enough to Napoleon that soft curve of her hip nudges against his thigh. Napoleon looks down, taking in the way she looks next to him, tucked into his side with unhesitating ease. She seems to sense his gaze, head tipping back to smile up at him for a moment before she returns to her conversation. When Napoleon looks back across the pool, Illya has vanished.

 _This is just a mission_.

He must be getting old; he used to be much better at fooling himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Standing in the balcony doorway of their suite, overlooking a sparsely populated hillside on the outskirts of Buenos Aires, Gaby pushes into the humid air, thick enough to feel like a solid wall of tropical heat. Even though the sun is setting and the air is cooling, this is still the height of summer, mid-January, and the damp, bone-chilling London winter begins to melt into an unpleasant memory. Yes, Gaby could get used to this kind of weather.

"Enjoying the view?" Napoleon steps out beside her, propping his elbows up on the railing and letting his eyes sweep across the verdure.

"It's so green," Gaby marvels. Despite their roaming at the behest of U.N.C.L.E., this is the first time they've been to a place with real jungle. The colour of the trees seems otherworldly, vibrant enough that she can almost taste it. Napoleon grins and nudges her with his shoulder.

"Matches your dress," he comments, referencing the green and white number, initially purchased for Rome, which has since become a staple of her wardrobe. A companionable silence settles in as they watch the last remnants of daylight fade from the sky. The moon continues its dogged ascent over the trees, yellow and full. Napoleon shucks his suit jacket, setting it carefully over one of the lounge chairs, and unclasps his cufflinks, beginning to roll up his sleeves. Gaby watches his forearms emerge, ropey and muscular, with a dusting of dark hair. His broad fingers are nimble, fitting for a thief, and he moves with an effortless confidence.

Gaby swallows, very deliberately ignoring the odd warmth that tumbles in her chest when she watches Napoleon. Then she glances down at her own hands, thumbing the ring which Napoleon presented to her before they'd left London. Illya had offered his ring, the black pearl one which he keeps giving to her and she keeps giving back, but Gaby hadn't felt right wearing the thing that had gotten Napoleon tortured as a symbol of their 'love'. So she'd told Napoleon to choose one, curious to see what would draw his eye. It's gold, with delicate filigree curves caressing a brilliant opal, the stone polished into a shimmering oval dome. As she tilts her hand back and forth the opal dances in the twilight, tiny phantasms of green, pink, and yellow flickering into existence before vanishing as the light shifts. Until he'd shown her this ring, she hadn't realized that she'd been expecting a diamond from him. It had seemed like the perfect gem for his public persona, all flash and popularity. But the opal is growing on her; eye-catching but also oddly understated, only revealing its true depths when examined carefully, from just the right angle.

"Did you steal this?" she asks.

"Took it off some old Venetian count about, oh, fifteen years ago? When I was casing out his safe. One of my first big jobs," Napoleon admits with a shrug. "Beautiful ring like this, and it was just sitting in a vault, locked out of view. That's the real crime."

Gaby snorts. "Yes, clearly that was much worse than stealing it. And you kept it? For fifteen years?"

"At the time I was hoping that someday I'd find someone to give it to, but, well," his head drops and he taps the railing with his knuckles, "life got in the way."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Gaby swallows. "I'm sorry.”

"Don't be." He pastes on an expression that's half smile, half grimace. "I was young and stupid, thought I could have it all. Found out pretty fast that being hunted by an international task force for high level art theft makes it difficult to settle down. Same thing goes for being a C.I.A. agent. Hard to trust people. Never could bring myself to get rid of the ring, though."

"It's beautiful," Gaby agrees, eyeing the jewelry with renewed interest. "Is there a bug in it? Illya puts them in half the things he gives me."

"I still can't believe he drilled a hole in that pearl," Napoleon says with a dark air of disgust. "No, unlike Peril, I have actual respect for the finer things. No gadgets in this one." He turns to her with a chiding smirk. "So don't you go wandering off, missy. Waverly would give me hell if I lost you. Just think of the paperwork."

"Well, in that case..." she grins. Napoleon bumps her again with his shoulder and Gaby finds herself leaning into the warmth of this momentary contact. Then she crosses her arms on the railing and lets her chin rest in the crook of one elbow. God, she's still so tired. Another silence falls between them as Gaby struggles to keep her eyes open, trying to figure out how late it would be in London and giving up somewhere around the general conclusion that it would be very late indeed.

It's only when Gaby suddenly finds herself swaying and jolts upright that she realizes she's nearly fallen asleep standing up. As she opens her eyes, she finds Napoleon gazing down at her, blue eyes flicking away when he catches her glance.

"I'm going to take a bath," Gaby admits around a yawn. "Coming to bed soon?"

The American shakes his head. "I'll see if I can last a bit longer, get over the time difference." Gaby reluctantly pulls herself off the railing and turns to leave, but stops when she remembers something.

"Which side of the bed do you...?" Somehow, despite Napoleon's endearingly enthusiastic preparations back in London, it's one thing they've never discussed, and by the time they got in last night it was so late that Gaby had simply collapsed onto the mattress without any thought.

He glances at her then, face shifting with some emotion that disappears before Gaby can pin it down and label it.

"Left side." It's not harsh, but it's decisive. Unbidden, Gaby's mind flicks back to the first time she shared a bed with Illya, in New York last month; the way he nearly fell over himself in his haste to let her choose, his overwhelming eagerness to shape himself into whatever form he thought she wanted of him.

 _Stop thinking about Illya_ , she says to herself.

"Goodnight," she says to Napoleon.

 

* * *

 

 

Sleep has always come easy to Napoleon. Learning to fall asleep whenever and wherever he happened to find himself, in as little time as possible, was an essential skill in the army. Catch it when you can, because you never know how long you'll have to go without.

So really, there's no good reason for him to still be up. Gaby has set a good example, she's already drifted off, her soft breaths a rhythmic interruption in the silence. He shouldn't be sitting here, wide awake.

Napoleon is starting to suspect that Gaby will be, has already been, responsible for him doing a great many things that he thinks he shouldn't. Ever since Rome, when he got so caught up in checking on her, making sure she was safe and whole, that he'd let his guard down completely and had gotten a swift kick to the head for his trouble. There's just _something_ about her, something fierce and vibrant and fascinating that keeps him circling her, captivated, ignoring everything but the pull of her presence.

Napoleon looks across the bed at her, the dark sweep of her eyelashes, the way her mouth is hanging open slightly, face smashed into the pillow. In sleep, she's every bit as unrepentant for taking up space, for her own existence, as she is in wakefulness. Their first night here, Napoleon had wandered in to discover that she had stolen most of the covers and claimed the middle of the bed as her own, limbs thrown every which way, leaving Napoleon teetering on a precarious sliver of mattress. It really shouldn't be so endearing.

Yet another "shouldn't" that's going completely unheeded.

Perhaps the thing he's learned most about her, over these months, is how oddly accurate his first impressions of her were, taken in that sketchy garage in East Berlin. The way that, behind all of her snark and bluster, he'd understood, more by intuition than conscious thought, that the abrasiveness was no accident, no incidental character flaw. It was a choice she'd made, probably a long time ago, to keep people far enough away that they couldn't hurt her. Gaby has begun to opened up over time, cautiously revealing tiny corners of the woman behind the defensiveness to him and Illya, and then, by turns, pushing them away again when she’s scared herself too badly.

Maybe that's why Napoleon finds himself watching her sleep next to him. He is genuinely caught off-guard by her _trust._ She barely spared him a glance, already halfway asleep as he'd settled next to her, as if his presence in her bed wasn't strange, wasn't some unknown that she had to eye warily. As if he belonged here with her.

And oh, that is a dangerous thought if ever there was one.

Napoleon lets himself look for another second. Self-discipline has never been his strongest suit. But then he forces himself to turn away from Gaby.

_This is just a mission._

Yeah, sure...


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, von Trusch? I knew your uncle. What a lovely man. Such a pity about his accident."

Against Napoleon's side, Gaby stiffens. Her hand, which had been resting on arm, clamps down, clawing almost painfully. But Herr Richter doesn't seem to notice, instead taking a sip of his drink and gazing around the patio blandly.

"Yes, that came as such a shock." Despite Gaby's death grip on his arm, her voice is steady. "I still can't quite believe he's gone."

"A real shame," Napoleon adds, adopting his best sorrowful expression.

"Did you know Rudi?" asks Herr Richter, blinking at Napoleon as if he'd forgotten the American's existence.

"Only met him a few times, last summer. Northern hemisphere, that is. But he...made quite an impression on me." Well, it's technically not a lie. "Very unforgettable." Also not a lie, though Napoleon would much rather forget the abhorrent little toad.

"Indeed, quite a remarkable man. A true patriot," Richter praises. "He lived here for a brief time after the war, I knew him then. He spoke often of you, Frau Miller."

"He did?"

Richter lets out a gentle chuckle. "Rudi had very high hopes for his favourite niece, despite your father being, if I may be so bold, a bit of a bleeding heart. Whatever is the great Dr. Teller doing these days? Probably defected to the Soviets or some rubbish." He concludes this with a dismissive laugh, like it's a trifle, but his eyes are too sharp, watching Gaby's reaction.

"I wouldn't know," Gaby says tersely, with a level of hurt that Napoleon suspects isn't all artifice. "But wherever he is, I'm sure he's still a coward."

Richter's eyebrows dart up, apparently pleased at Gaby's disapproval of her father. Then, seeming to realize that he's overstepped, he lets his mouth spread, revealing one yellow tooth after another, into a reptilian facsimile of a smile. Gaby shudders faintly, clinging to Napoleon's arm like a life-preserver. Napoleon smiles back, something equally insincere.

 _Fucking bastards,_ Napoleon thinks, unsure if he means Richter or Rudi or Dr. Teller. Maybe all of them.

Still letting Gaby lead things, Napoleon waits for her cue, and steps in to help when she begins to bring the conversation to a polite, if slightly abrupt, end, sending Richter on his way.

"Sorry," Gaby whispers to Napoleon once they’re alone. She swallows, looking at the floor and taking measured breaths. "I don't—" Napoleon waits for her to collect herself, to finish the thought. "I didn't think any of them would actually _know_ him." She doesn't specify which 'him', Rudi or her father, and maybe it doesn't matter.

Napoleon's memory suddenly flashes to their one day in West Berlin, when Gaby stood on the sidewalk with him and confessed, in her own, brittle way, that she was overwhelmed. Scared. She hadn't used those words, of course, Napoleon doubts that Gaby would ever admit to being afraid in such bald terms, but everything else about her had been screaming it. Just as then, he can read her signs now. Gaby is beyond done. But unlike then, he can actually offer her something better than a reassuring platitude.

"You want to pack it in for the night?" Napoleon murmurs. "Head to the room? I think we got a good start, with that hint you got from Herr Fischer to check the guestbook."

Gaby hums in grateful confirmation, surprising him when she drops her head to rest for a moment against his shoulder. Her entire body sags into him, and Napoleon wraps his arm a little tighter around her waist. She's warm against his side; small but not fragile.

"Race you to the Scotch," Napoleon says lightly, jostling her until she picks her head up.

"You're on," she rejoins, finding a crooked little smile for him.

 

* * *

 

"Bottoms up, Teller. To a successful day of Nazi courting." Napoleon grins at Gaby, who responds with an an easy smile as she clinks glasses with him. To his shocked amusement she takes his toast literally, tilting the finger of Scotch up and downing it in one gulp, face contorting into a grimace at the burn of it. She glares at him when he chuckles, but he's having far too much fun to care, pausing to take a demure sip of his own.

"That's what you call drinking?" Gaby asks around a derisive snort.

"You can't just chug this like it's cheap tequila, Gaby. This is Macallan. It's meant to be savoured." Napoleon illustrates this by taking another small pull, tipping his head back and letting the liquor roll around in his mouth for a moment. Oh yeah, this is good stuff.

"I think you're just a chicken."

He really shouldn't be rising to the bait. But he's comfortable and relaxed, suit jacket, waistcoat and tie long abandoned, legs crossed at the ankle and one arm draped over the back of their suite's couch. Gaby has already changed into her sleeping clothes, shorts and a baggy t-shirt appropriate for the warmer climate, and has tucked herself into a ball, pink-painted toes of one foot peeking out from under her thigh. Without the haute couture and the makeup she looks, well, different. But it's a good sort of different. More like the brave, brilliant woman he met back in East Berlin. As he watches her she shuffles a little closer, into the crook of his outstretched arm, holds out her glass and waggles it back and forth, a shit-eating grin splitting her face. How Peril manages to abstain from drinking during missions is an utter mystery to Napoleon, if Gaby is always this delightful and this persistent.

So he gives her a wink and knocks back the rest of his glass in one go, not quite managing to suppress a cough as the alcohol sears his throat.

"God, I feel like a total heathen," he rasps, throwing an arm over his forehead in a feigned swoon. "What have you done to me?"

"Does that mean you want to stop?"

"Not a chance in hell."

The joy that brightens her expression while he pours them both another is contagious, banishing any thoughts beyond a sudden desire to know all the other ways to make her so happy.

 

* * *

 

That night, or rather sometime during the pre-dawn hours of the next morning, Napoleon discovers one downside to sharing a bed, beyond the cover hogging. Getting awakened by a stray elbow to the ribs also turns out to be rather unpleasant. Napoleon rolls over to glare at her, grunting when she thrashes and kicks his shin, but when he hears her whimper his annoyance vanishes.

"Gaby?" Her face, contorted in a fearful expression, tenses at the sound of her name. Whatever she's dreaming about, it can't be good.

"Gaby? Hey, c'mon, it's just a bad dream." When she fails to rouse, Napoleon reaches over and carefully shakes her shoulder. She freezes, then her eyes pop open.

"Scheisse," she swears around panicked breaths. "Napoleon?"

"Yeah, it's me. You okay?" It's a ridiculous question, she's very obviously not okay, and Napoleon flinches the second that it comes out of his mouth.

"I'm fine." Gaby pulls herself up to sitting, tenting her legs and wrapping her arms around them.

"Clearly." Sometimes he hates the way that, whenever he's totally lost, his brain automatically chooses sarcasm. "Fuck. Sorry, I'm an ass," he apologizes. The fact that Gaby doesn't so much as give him a dirty look is, quite frankly, scaring him a bit. She doesn't even seem to hear him.

"It's fine," she belatedly responds. Napoleon waits for her to say something else, to give him some hint about what to do, but she goes right back to staring at the far wall, looking about five different kinds of not fine.

There's a long silence.

"Do you want to talk about—?"

"I said I'm _fine_."

He spends the next ten seconds flicking through his brain with increasing desperation, trying to figure out any way to help her. He considers reaching out, placing a hand on her shoulder, but her body is almost impossibly taut, as if she's expecting to be attacked any moment, so he shelves that idea. Which leaves him right back where he started.

"It might help, talking. Is it about your father?"

Gaby stills. He wouldn't have thought it possible for her to become any more still than she had been before, but she proves him wrong, freezing like a frightened rabbit.

"I don't want to talk about him."

Well, Napoleon supposes that's confirmation of his hunch. He watches as she returns to her own mind, breathing still somehow forced, like she hasn't quite remembered the knack for it. Napoleon feels awkward and useless, sitting here in silence while she struggles. After a few minutes Gaby's eyes flick back to him and he flinches guiltily, turning away.

"I'm..." Gaby begins to say, but she gives up and instead just climbs out of bed, hurrying towards the door.

"Do you want me to—?"

"No."

Then she's gone, disappeared into the living room of their suite. He listens to her soft footsteps as they pad away, and then stop. There's a creak, which Napoleon thinks is the sofa. Then everything falls silent.

Napoleon sits awake until he can't anymore. But she doesn't return. Eventually he falls asleep, though he hadn't meant to, and the far side of the bed is cold when he wakes up. Chest filling with dread, Napoleon bolts out of bed, shuffling into the living room.

When he sees a mop of chestnut hair peeking up over the arm of the sofa, Napoleon sighs, stunned at the intensity of his relief. He cautiously pads towards her, heart dropping again as he finally gets a good look at her. She may be asleep, but it doesn't look peaceful at all. Faint trembles occasionally skitter through her body; she didn't even take a blanket, just hunkered down into a ball, tight and tiny, like she's trying to hide from something.

"Oh, Gaby," he finds himself murmuring. He doesn't think he pities her, not really, but he wishes that she didn't have to be so tough all the time. He wishes the world wasn't such a screwed up, cruel place.

Feeling wholly inadequate, he retrieves the spare blanket from the bedroom and gently drapes it over her crumpled form. As he looks down at her for one more moment, he prays that she doesn’t have to go through this again.


	3. Chapter 3

Having just finished having lunch with Frau Richter, which was extremely unpleasant but informative, Gaby wanders into the garden in search of her 'husband'. She pauses at a fork in the path which loops through the grounds, trying to put herself in the mindset of her quarry, but then she hears a tittering burst of female laughter from her left, and that pretty much settles it. Sure enough, as Gaby rounds some hedges she discovers the dark hair and broad shoulders of Napoleon, encircled by a small flock of women who are gazing at him with open adoration.

 _Typical_ , Gaby thinks to herself, grinning. Napoleon's back is to her, so she pauses for a moment, watching him enthrall the women with his charm. She's not close enough to make out his words, but whatever he's saying is well received. The women, some old, some younger, many married and all seeming utterly spellbound, laugh at his wit and beam when he turns to one or another with a casual-yet-flirtatious touch on the arm, a wink, a particularly saucy smile. He's completely in his element.

And oddly enough, Gaby finds the sight more entertaining than anything else. It's almost hypnotic to watch how effortlessly he works his audience. His body language is loose, relaxed, and what she can make out of his voice sounds genuinely happy. Still smiling at his back, she has to bite her lip to tamp it down.

Eventually deciding to go collect him, Gaby strolls forward, beginning to catch proper snippets when she stops behind a nearer bush, curious to hear what has the women so amused.

"No, no," one silver-haired old widower is saying to him. "You are close, but it needs to be more in the throat. Ich liebe dich."

"Ick... leeb-uh dihk?" Napoleon stutters, butchering the pronunciation of this basic phrase to such a severe degree that Gaby, along with the hoard of admirers, all break into various noises of amusement. "Not so good, I'm guessing?" he says through a self-effacing grin.

 _"God, I wish he was saying that to me,"_ sighs one of the women to another in German, who chuckles and shushes her.

"Almost," praises the old woman, patting his arm. "Not a sharp 'kuh' sound, it's softer. Ich. Not with your tongue, just the throat."

"Ick?" Napoleon tries, making absolutely no improvement on his last effort. Gaby rolls her eyes, even though he can't see her.

"Ich."

"Ish?"

 _"How is he so awful at this?"_ giggles a willowy, blonde woman. _"Thank goodness he's good looking. I can't imagine that she married him for his brains."_

 _"Does that mean you're not interested?"_ a woman who looks old enough to be Napoleon's grandmother asks, elbowing the younger blonde. _"Because if she leaves him, I'm first in line."_

The self-appointed tutor glares at this interruption to her lesson, silencing any further chatter. "Nevermind them, dear boy. Make sure to use the back of the mouth, not the front. Ich."

"Ich?" Napoleon says.

"Yes, that's it!" The other women all praise him lavishly, even though the sound is still a little wonky, and Napoleon beams with pride at his 'accomplishment.' "Try the whole phrase now," commands the widower, sounding it out with studious care. "Ich liebe dich."

"Ich...leeb-uh...dich," he recites in a grating American accent which she knows he could smooth out in a heartbeat. She has to give him credit, though, he's spectacularly good at spectacularly bad German pronunciation.

"Wonderful! Your wife will be thrilled."

"Well, it's all thanks to your teaching skills, Frau Himmler. You are an absolute treasure," he assures her, making the old woman smile and blush. "Ich liebe dich," he says again, with a bit more confidence, prompting another round of enthusiastic praise.

Though Gaby could watch him do this all day, finding herself already caught up in his fun, she knows that they're supposed to meet Herr Kander for a walk soon, so she steps out and begins to approach the group. Once Gaby gets closer she recognizes one of the women, who she couldn't see well from behind the hedge, as Frau Werner. The women greet Gaby, prompting Napoleon to turn around. His smile broadens when he sees her, eyes crinkled around the corner in genuine pleasure.

"Sweetheart," he says, opening one arm as she comes up next to him, letting Gaby tuck herself into her side. His arm settles around her, the palm of his hand a warm, grounding presence against the small of her back. "Did you and Frau Richter have a good chat?"

"Oh, yes, delightful," Gaby lies with a breezy smile, gesturing to the band of woman who surround him. "And what on earth have you been up to, Häschen? I hope he hasn't been boring you ladies."

"Not a bit," pipes up the tall blonde.

"He has something to show you," says the widower, giving Napoleon an encouraging smile. "Go on. Just like we practiced."

The women fall silent, watchful as Napoleon licks his lips, turning to Gaby. His blue eyes are shining with good humour.

"Gaby," he says with the overly solemn air of a magician who's about to produce a rabbit from a hat at some children's birthday party, “ich liebe dich.”

"That's wonderful," Gaby praises past the strange fluttering sensation in her chest. "You learned that just for me?"

 _"That's your response? Say it back to him,"_ chides the tutor. _"He worked hard. He's earned an 'I love you'."_

Gaby swallows. Napoleon continues to smile down at her, warm and happy and handsome.

"Ich liebe dich," Gaby murmurs, surprised at how steady her voice sounds. She'd expected this to be more difficult. Napoleon's smile, impossibly, gets even wider. He takes the hand from her back and cups it around her far shoulder, tugging her against his side as leans over to press a kiss to the top of her head. The women all coo and titter with delight.

 _"Kiss him!"_ dares the old granny, a smirk that's as much gums as teeth spreading across her weathered face. Gaby blushes, preparing to demur, but then the woman says _"If you won't, then I will."_ The group howls with laughter. Napoleon glances to Gaby, managing to look convincingly confused. A couple of the women add their own encouragements, and Gaby realizes that there's no way out of this which doesn't involve breaking their cover.

Or kissing him.

Objectively, it's a rather boring kiss. Just a brief, dry press of lips to lips. His hand drops to her hip, steadying her as she creeps up onto her toes. It's over in less time than it had taken to commit to it. That was good. Simple. Almost professional.

Though the spark of heat that zips from her lips down to her stomach doesn't feel very professional.

After she settles back down to earth, heels touching the ground, Gaby begins to ramble something to the women, though if asked later to recall what she'd said she would be entirely unable. Napoleon’s eyes lock onto her, his face drawn in an expression that she can’t quite place. For a moment she thinks that his eyes dart downwards, back to her lips, but before she can be certain he glances away, returning to schmoozing. But his hand stays curled around her hip, as if its presence is so natural that he’s simply forgotten to remove it. A minute later he lifts it away, compelled to gesture by some particularly interesting topic of conversation, and Gaby stuns herself by nearly reaching for him, almost capturing his hand again and bringing it back to her body. She makes a fist instead, focusing on the bite of her fingernails against her palm instead of the intensity of her want.

_It doesn't matter. This is just a mission._

 

* * *

 

 

For the next few days they slowly make friends and gather intelligence. Better still, Gaby manages a couple of good nights with no bad dreams. At least he thinks she does; he doesn’t get woken up and he doesn’t find her on the couch, though more than once her eyes seem hollow in the morning and she spends most of the day subsisting on alarming amounts of coffee. But he tries not to let his worry show, because he’s reasonably certain that she’d chew him out for being overprotective, the way he’s seen her do to Illya sometimes. So he settles for quietly breathing a sigh of relief every morning that he wakes up and finds her curled up next to him.

But then, one night later, he's shaking her awake again and hating himself for being so fucking useless, because he still hasn’t figured out anything to do but talk to her again, which is obviously not what she needs. She shuts him out, disappears and falls asleep on the couch. Then he has to wake her _again_ since they're supposed to be meeting Fraulein Loeb for tennis in an hour, and that might be one of the hardest things he's ever had to do. Gaby grumbles but complies, slipping off to take a shower. As soon as she's gone Napoleon collapses onto the couch and drags a hand over his face.

When there's a knock at the door, Napoleon jolts before remembering that he'd ordered room service, intending to give Gaby a few more minutes to sleep in. He hauls himself upright and wanders over to let them in, freezing when instead of some scrawny Argentine teen, he is instead confronted with one enormous Russian.

"Room service," Illya says unnecessarily. Napoleon ushers him in and closes the door.

"What are you doing here?" Napoleon asks. "You're supposed to be working downstairs."

"Miguel called in sick again, even though everyone knows that he is faking. And of course Hector managed to get himself in trouble for making passes at Maria again, skinny Maria, not old Maria, so he is put on kitchen duty and I am stuck doing room service," Illya rants while he unloads the serving cart, thrusting the trays into Napoleon's arms with much more force than necessary.

"I'm sorry, who are...any of these people?" Napoleon asks, blinking in confusion.

"Hotel staff. Though maybe not much longer for Hector."

"Well, thanks for the update," Napoleon chuckles, amused at Illya's headlong dive into the apparent soap opera that's taking place amongst the resort staff. "Apart from all that, is everything good on your end?"

"Da," Illya grunts, eyes searching the room. "Where's Gaby?"

"In the shower." As Illya turns to leave, Napoleon calls his name. The Russian turns to face him, and Napoleon suddenly finds himself tossing out the mission info he was about to share and instead blurting out, before he's fully considered the impulse, "Has Gaby ever had nightmares before? With you?"

Illya frowns. "Yes. Sometimes, if things are difficult. Is she having them now?"

"Yeah." There's a pause; Illya seems to be waiting for Napoleon to say something else. He tries to figure out whether it would be strange for him to ask Illya, before deciding that he honestly doesn't care right now. "Is there anything I can do? To make things easier for her?"

An odd expression settles on Illya's face. Napoleon had been expecting, if anything, jealousy, but it isn't that. It's more contemplative, assessing.

"Look, Peril, I'm not trying to start anything, I swear. I just," Napoleon sighs, "I hate to see her like this. So miserable. If there's anything you can think of..." Illya's still just _staring_ at him and Napoleon, despite himself, begins to ramble. "I mean, you know how stubborn she is, Peril, she'd probably saw her own leg off before asking for help. So—"

For a moment, when Illya bites his lip, Napoleon falls silent, thinking he's failed whatever test the Russian has been weighing him for. But then Illya nods, almost to himself more than to Napoleon.

"Hold her," he instructs.

"Excuse me?" Surely he must've misheard. It almost sounded like Illya, who he has witnessed on more than one occasion looking halfway to murder when Gaby is so much as flirting with another man, just suggested that he, Napoleon, should hold Gaby. In his arms.

"You should hold her. In your arms.” Well then. “You're right, she'll never ask, but it helps. She is very, ah, what is word?" Illya rubs together the fingers and thumb of his right hand, squinting as he thinks. "Likes touch...tactile. Yes, tactile,” Illya confirms with a satisfied nod, seeming to feel the topic concluded, which it is most definitely not. Not with the number of questions still buzzing through Napoleon's mind. But instead of the ones he's really interested in, like 'why aren't you jealous?', or 'wait, are you jealous?', or 'what in God's name is going _on_ with you and Gaby and how do I fit into any of it?', he chooses to ask the boring, practical one. God, he really is getting old.

"Will she even let me? She seems...tense."

"For you, yes. She trusts you." Illya says it so simply, with such certainty, that Napoleon nearly falls over. He tries to remember the last time that anyone who knew better considered him _trustworthy._ Whenever it was, it must've been before the C.I.A., before he became a thief. His shock must show on his face, because Illya's forehead creases in confusion.

"Of course she does. Ever since beginning, she trusts you very much.  This has always been very obvious. You really are a terrible spy," Illya adds with a grin, reaching out and giving Napoleon a good-natured clap on the shoulder.

"Uh, thanks, Peril." Napoleon smiles cautiously back, and Illya's hand squeezes his shoulder, gentle. Then he bites his lip, eyeing Napoleon again for a moment.

 _Don't think about New York,_ Napoleon tells himself, attempting to snuff out the memory of Illya, the same hand settling on his shoulder while he gazed at Napoleon, blue eyes warm and so large... But no. He cannot get caught up in that now. He just can't.

"I'm glad that you're helping her," Illya says, face turning solemn, as if imparting Napoleon with a profound secret. "I know you will take good care of her."

Then Illya bustles out of the room, leaving Napoleon stunned, confused, and alone. Napoleon goes to retrieve the cooling toast and eggs, intending fully to silence his brain under the deluge of food.


	4. Chapter 4

At some point, towards the end of their first week at the resort, Napoleon begins to realize something. As much fun as he’s having playing the eye candy, flirting with everyone and doing what he does best, what he finds himself looking forward to most, at the end of every day, is heading back to the room, taking off his tie, and relaxing with Gaby.

They’re about four drinks into what has become their evening routine of hanging out on the couch, talking and listening to the pop music which Napoleon insists is terrible but Gaby likes. Keeping with what Napoleon has discovered, somewhere around Gaby's fourth drink of the night is when she decides that she absolutely needs to dance. And, of course, she makes this known with all the subtlety of a freight train; grabbing his hands while he's in the middle of a sentence and tugging at his captive digits until he agrees to dance.

They've done this a few times, at post-mission celebrations with Peril, and neither man has ever managed to deny her when she gets like this, all soft and warm and loose, grinning up at them with what should too much mischief for one tiny person. So tonight it doesn't even occur to him to object. He's docile under her touch and follows her into the middle of the room, pausing to help her move the coffee table aside to make room. Then she's before him again, wearing that oversized t-shirt which he's almost certain she stole from Illya and shorts which only occasionally appear from under the hem of the shirt, those slender little fingers winding around his wrists as she beams up at him. Her cheeks are a little flushed from the drinks, just rosy enough to remind him of that first time he kissed her, by the pool. When she winks, fluttering her lashes playfully, Napoleon can't contain the grin which takes hold of his face. God, she's _magnificent._

"You're in a good mood," he murmurs, smiling even wider as she just hums in response and begins to sway along to the music. It's one of the myriad little things that Napoleon has discovered about his partners. Illya, even when stone-cold sober, has all the rhythmic sense of a concussed ostrich. The man can move just fine, but he's endearingly hopeless when put to music. But Gaby feels it in her bones. No matter how tired, drunk, or various combinations of the two she gets, she always finds the beat with unerring precision. Now is no different; she slips into an easy glide back and forth, pulling Napoleon along in her orbit.

He indulges her aimless steps for a few minutes, but then, when the radio switches to something a bit faster, Napoleon sets her left hand on his shoulder and wraps one arm around her waist. The song is vaguely familiar, definitely a bit dated, but it's got the sort of beat that deserves to be danced properly.

"Oh, getting serious now?" Gaby retorts.

"I'm never serious," he smirks back, sending her into a spin and chuckling as she lets out a quiet ‘oh!’ of surprise. When she hits the end of their combined arms' length she glares at him, though the effect is somewhat diminished by the way her mouth quivers in a poorly repressed smile. Instead of following his signals when he tries to tug her back into his arms, Gaby grins, then sashays towards him at her own pace, hips swaying as her bare feet scuff across the carpet. She continues her little rebellion by brushing past his side and looping around him from behind, dropping his hand to trail her fingers across his back, making a shiver shoot up his spine at the featherlight contact through the thin cotton of his shirt. He manages to school himself into what he hopes is a passable attempt at disaffection when she completes her circle and insinuates herself in his arms again. If she noticed his reaction she says nothing, just staring up at him as he takes them through a few more basic steps.

"This is boring," Gaby says, prodding his shoulder. "Come on, Mr. Bigshot. Show me your moves."

"Whatever the lady wants."

It's a statement that's true in more ways than Napoleon is fully willing to admit.

 

* * *

 

 

As Gaby moves with Napoleon, feeling a little too giddy for her to entirely explain away by the number of drinks she’s had, she can’t quite stop looking at him. His suit jacket and waistcoat were abandoned sometime around their second drink, his tie followed shortly thereafter, and finally he'd slipped his cufflinks off and rolled up his sleeves. Whatever he uses to slick his hair back is beginning to give up after a long day's work, letting a few stray locks fall across his forehead. And best of all, he’s grinning down at her, blue eyes shining and crinkled around the corners in an earnest way that she only gets to see when he’s alone with her and Illya, when he lets his masks fall away. It’s utterly captivating.

It's not that she hasn't noticed his good looks. On the contrary, it was one of the first things she noticed about the brash American who invaded her garage. Her hastily constructed mental file on him had included a few basic elements: American, tolerable German accent, knows his way around an engine, bit of an ass, and conventionally handsome. All very professional, nothing more.

Somewhere between sipping drinks on the rooftop patio in Rome, as she stood between the men and struggled with the knowledge that her carefully-planned clean break from them had just fallen to pieces, and the moment she finds herself in now, wrapped in his arms while they sway to closing bars of some sappy old jazz ballad, things changed. She's gone from professional curiosity to a different curiosity which definitely doesn't _feel_ very professional.

"Hey, this is our song," Napoleon murmurs, pausing for a moment to find the new beat.

It takes Gaby a second to place the reference, but then she recalls another bland hotel room, one month ago in New York. Their fourth mission was done and Gaby had spent their free day dragging the men around the city, wanting to see _everything._ Napoleon had taken them to the Met and spent the whole time whispering low and warm in her ear about how he’d go about stealing every painting, coming up with increasingly absurd schemes until she couldn’t stop laughing, and Illya had made them pose for pictures at the top of the Empire State Building. Then they'd traipsed back to the room she'd been sharing with Illya, a little giddy, and Gaby had been more drunk on freedom and their company than anything else. So she'd grabbed the nearest man, who happened to be Napoleon, and picked up the beat of the first thing on the radio.

Just like then, they slip into an easy rhythm, moving together in effortless harmony. Under her hand his shoulder is firm, muscles flickering as he shifts the arm tucked around her side to urge her a little closer while he tunelessly hums along to Perry Como. Unlike then, there's no Russian watching them from the sofa with a soft smile.

"That was a nice day," Gaby muses, remembering the giddy warmth that had filled her chest at Illya, looking content and faintly stunned, like the sight of her and Napoleon together had provoked some profound realization. Though she's still not sure what he discovered that night, Gaby had enjoyed herself, dancing and dancing with Napoleon until he'd spun her into Illya's arms with a flick of his wrist.

"It was," Napoleon agrees. "I still can’t believe you danced yourself to sleep."

Gaby nods wordlessly, feeling increasingly close to sleep now. Some combination of the drinks, the late hour, the slow song, and the busy day has finally gotten to her. Without thinking, Gaby tips forward, letting her forehead press into the crook of Napoleon's neck with a quiet sigh.

 

* * *

 

 

When Gaby's head drops down to his chest, Napoleon nearly trips over his own feet. He had sensed that she was slowing down, but then she's suddenly _there_ , leaning against him, boneless and relaxed.

_For you she will. She trusts you._

Illya's words echo through Napoleon's head, making an odd feeling ripple in his midriff. Then Gaby turns her head, pressing her cheek into him with a slow, seemingly unintentional hum that sounds like pure contentment. They're not really dancing anymore, just swaying, but Napoleon still tightens his arm around her back, making sure to gentle his movements so she can rest.

For the longest time, he has forced himself not to notice her as a woman. It’s not an airtight thing, he’s not nearly so perfect, but for the sake of keeping the peace with Peril he’s tried. Yet all of that work is unravelling before his very eyes, as he gazes down at Gaby, tucked under his chin.

She's tiny in his arms. It's easy to forget that most of the time, since everything else about her is so bold and big, but now, in this rare moment of quiet, Napoleon is suddenly aware of how slender her fingers are, tucked into his hand, the way his other hand spans nearly the entire width of her back. Though not the almost absurd height difference of her and Illya, her frame feels delicate in his embrace, almost like she's made of different stuff than him. Intensely feminine in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

This is, of course, far from the first time that Napoleon has danced with a pretty girl. But this isn't just a pretty girl, this is _Gaby._ Who is utterly brilliant and capable and brave, who has blindsided him over and over again with the sheer ferocity of her independence. Gaby, who, as best he can tell, has lived most of her life in a state of distrust bordering on paranoia, yet who has become the first person in too many years to _trust_ him.

But his awe is interrupted when the song ends, switching to something fast. Incredibly Gaby lingers for a moment, like she's loathe to leave the circle of his arms, and Napoleon needs all his willpower not to pull her even closer. It can't last, though, and eventually, with a small noise of displeasure, Gaby pulls away.

"I'm done for the night," she says. "We need to get up early anyways, meet Frau Werner for breakfast."

“Uh, right,” Napoleon says, wincing self-consciously at the sudden huskiness of his own voice. Gaby looks up at him, sleepy brown eyes searching his face for a moment. But there’s a lingering sharpness to her gaze, which he has to force himself not to avoid. “Yeah,” he adds pointlessly and _God_ , what is it about her and Illya that can turn him into the world’s biggest idiot?

Gaby’s mouth purses in confusion, but then she just nods and begins to walk away.

“Coming to bed?” she asks, looking back at where he’s still rooted. “Or are you just going to stand there all night?”

“Well, it’s tempting…” Napoleon retorts, shaking himself and striding forward. Gaby rolls her eyes, biting her lip. As she turns away again, Napoleon smirks at her in delight. She only grants him an eye roll when he’s done something particularly ridiculous that makes her _want_ to laugh, but she doesn’t want to encourage him. Apart from her mischievous grin, it might be his favourite Gaby expression. A perfect way to end the night.

 

* * *

 

 

_"It's just like we talked about, Gaby. You need to go to the countryside for a while, to stay safe from the bombs."_

_"I don't want to go, Papa,”_ Gaby whimpers in a child's voice

_"Be brave for me, darling. We'll be together again after it's done."_

But they're not together. Dr. Udo Teller stands before her, but then a burst of scarlet blooms in the centre of his forehead, blood gushing and gushing as the bombs that he designed fall not on London but instead rain down around Gaby and she's screaming and screaming but she can't hear herself over the bombs and she's alone, alone, alone—

 

"Gaby?"

Gaby sucks in a gulp of air as she wakes, reeling and frantic, sitting up and curling into a tight ball before she's even fully aware of her surroundings.

"Hey, whoa, it's okay. You're okay," murmurs Napoleon's deep, soothing voice. She looks up to find his worried blue eyes searching her face. "That was a bad one, huh?" he asks.

Gaby just nods, clenching her jaw in a semi-futile attempt to stop her teeth from rattling with every stuttering breath she manages. She presses her fists against her eyes, needing _something_ but unable to figure out what, needing everything to just _stop._

 _You can do this,_ she tells herself. _Get up and go to the other room. You've done this alone your whole life. You're tougher than this._

Just as she's preparing to rise, Napoleon says her name again, in a stronger tone of voice that makes her glance over. His outstretched hand is hovering a short distance from her shoulder, suspended in midair. She watches it, but it doesn't move. Confused, she looks back up to his face, finding him gazing at her with a questioning slant to his eyebrows. Waiting for her permission.

That's new. He's never done anything apart from talk before. But when she considers the silent offer that needy part of her brain, the one that was uncertain, screeches to a halt and says _yes, yes, do this._ So she nods. His eyes widen in surprise, like he'd never expected her assent, his broad hand venturing further to brush the round of her shoulder. Without thought she leans into the overly cautious touch, sighing with relief at the warmth of his palm. After a moment of stillness he seems to grow braver, his fingers curling around her shoulder, thumb rubbing a soft pattern against the fabric of her shirt. Oh, that's nice.

Half greedy and half desperate, Gaby shuffles across the bed, needing more, only stopping when she’s tucked into his side, trusting him to open his arms for her. He does, of course, just as she knew he would, pulling her closer still and it's perfect. He's warm and strong, arms encircling her while she clutches at the front of his shirt, savouring the almost heady sensation of comfort that floods through her.

It's something that she always forces herself to forget, her own need for touch. She spent her life filling that void with spikes and armour and anything she could find to keep people at a distance. But now she revels in Napoleon's touch, soaking up his warmth and pressing herself closer. The ghostly echoes of her parents are still floating through her brain, but she discovers that when she focuses on the sensation of being held, she feels safe.

As she winds down from the terror of her dream, she lets herself consider the person who is currently wrapped around her.

By most standards of logic, Gaby knows that she shouldn't have trusted him so quickly. After their madcap plunge over the Wall, during the drive to the safehouse, she'd been fully prepared to push him away. Sure, he was the first man in what felt like a lifetime who hadn’t made some smartass comment about her intersection of gender and profession, but that alone wasn’t enough to really earn her respect. She'd almost been looking forward to taking him down a few notches, making him chase her for the trust that she would never grant. But instead of choosing one of the many possibilities that would've cemented her distrust, he did something she could never have anticipated. He shooed away the overeager C.I.A. spooks who crowded around her, scolding them for acting like a bunch of jackals. Then he took off his jacket, offered her a glass of surprisingly decent wine, put on that ridiculous cowboy apron, and made dinner. For her.

She would've known exactly what to do if he'd flirted or ignored her or treated her like shit. But his simple kindness was so unexpected that she had reverted to wary snark, deliberately goading him by pretending to turn her nose up at the food, waiting for him to get fed up with her and snap so she could write him off for good. But he hadn't, he'd just edged his way around her hostility with quiet patience.

The second he’d left the room, Gaby had set upon the food. After all, she was actually hungry and despite her complaints, it had only smelled a tiny bit like feet. When he returned a few minutes later, looking weary and a little bitter, his eyes, widening in surprise, had swept over her now clean plate. The corners of his mouth turned up, and Gaby was fully prepared to cut down whatever self-congratulatory remark was about to emerge. But no, he just walked back to the stove and offered her another serving.

And then, in the course of the next mission which somehow turned into six months of missions, she’s discovered that not only does she trust him, not only does he keep earning her trust, but she rather _likes_ him. At first just as a friend who was fun and reliable and could handle her at her worst, but lately she's had a hard time stuffing all of her feelings into the category of pure friendship.

(There was also that dream she had a few weeks ago, with the _three_ of them, the one that still makes Gaby blush when she remembers it. That was definitely not ‘pure friendship’. But no way in hell is she thinking about that now, not while she's nearly sitting in Napoleon's lap.)

Napoleon shifts under her, bringing her back to the present. He seems to sense her attention, pulling his head away a bit.

"This okay?" he asks. Gaby almost laughs at how absurd the question is. She's the one who threw herself at him.

"It's good," Gaby confirms. "Thanks."

"Any time, Gabs. Wish I'd figured this out sooner. Could've saved you a few nights on the couch."

"How did you figure this out?"

Napoleon hesitates for a moment. "Illya suggested it."

Oh. Despite how messy things are now, Gaby finds herself intensely grateful for the moments when she has let Illya close. Sometimes she underestimates him, how observant he is. She realizes that she misses seeing more than stolen glances of him undercover.

"So, I take it he was right?" Napoleon prompts. There's a smile in his voice.

Gaby nods, her cheek still pressed into the hollow of his throat, stealing a breath of Napoleon's scent and surprising herself at how much comfort she gets from something so simple. She sighs the air back out as she closes her eyes, body becoming leaden as the nights of sleep deprivation begin to weigh her down.

 _Just resting for a second,_ she tells herself. _Not falling asleep on him._

 

* * *

 

 

"...Gaby?" Napoleon murmurs cautiously. When she fails to respond, he feels a strange dip in his chest. She's fallen asleep on him. He stares down at her, or rather the oblique slice of her face that he can see from this odd angle; a bit of forehead and cheek, and one closed eye, her dark lashes and brow forming two opposing curves. The rest is either mashed against his shirt or lost under the tumult of her loose hair.

She's stopped trembling now, thank goodness. The only motion is that of her ribs, expanding under his palm settled between her shoulder blades. One of her legs is thrown over his. He doesn't even remember when that happened.

After a moment he begins to shuffle downwards, knowing that if he tries to fall asleep like this, half sitting against the headboard, his back will give him hell in the morning. Gaby makes a tiny, displeased noise and her fingers clutch at a fistfull of his shirt.

"It's okay, Gabs," he finds himself soothing her, slowing his movements until she relaxes again. "Go back to sleep.” With added care, he finishes sliding down. Gaby stays with him the whole way, unconsciously chasing after him. Once he finally stills, he has to remove his hand from her back and gently sweep away some of her long, brown hair tickling his nose. He never quite realized just how _much_ of the stuff she has until it's all over him, in his face and spilling around his neck, a few silken curls brushing against the sensitive skin of his throat.

With the warm weight of her on his chest, he falls asleep easily, more content than he can remember having felt in years.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

After all their days of searching, gathering intel about this mysterious "second" guestbook, the perfect moment has come. Another big night of dancing, and everyone seems to be down in the ballroom. It's getting late, the drinks have been flowing, and most people seem pleasantly tipsy and, more importantly to Gaby, unobservant. She and Napoleon have made a show of being sickeningly enamoured with each other, and Gaby is trying not to focus on how little acting that required. Or on how much she enjoyed the warmth of his hands on her waist, the press of his lips when he’d found that one _spot_ under her ear, the one that made her shiver despite herself.

Tripping out into the foyer they nearly bump into another guest, and Gaby lets out a giggle, looking up at Napoleon with a sly grin which should be plenty to sell the act. Napoleon wraps his arms around her and makes an apologetic shrug to the their witness, then tugs Gaby along by the hand with a heady impatience which should cement the impression of a couple sneaking off for some alone time. They dart across the foyer and slip around a corner to the hallway which is, mercifully, deserted.

"Nicely done," Napoleon mutters, dropping her hand and striding over to the manager's office. He sticks a hand into his jacket, emerging with the small roll of lockpicks, eyes stubbornly fixed downward, away from Gaby. "Good acting, think we sold that pretty well," he adds, still not looking at her even as she comes to lean on the wall next to him. "Especially with the whole..." he trails off with an uncertain, circling gesture of his hand, the meaning of which completely eludes Gaby. It's vaguely unsettling, seeing him at a loss for words.

"Thanks," Gaby replies, because things have suddenly become strange and she doesn't know what else to say. While he kneels, choosing his tools and sizing up the lock, Gaby stays silent, watching the far end of the hall and listening for the telltale click of an interloper's shoes on the foyer tile. At her side she hears the quiet, metallic sounds of his work. But she only has a few seconds of tense peace before there's footsteps, unmistakable and approaching.

"Someone's coming," Gaby hisses. "Get up."

"Shit." Napoleon scrambles to his feet, one hand still wrapped around the doorknob. "The door's already unlocked. Give me a sec."

This is bad. Gaby's brain works furiously, knowing that getting caught leaning up next to a door which has mysteriously been unlocked would be a disaster. The footsteps are getting closer and Napoleon is swearing under his breath, scrabbling at the lock, and Gaby realizes they have run out of time.

Later, Gaby never manages to remember exactly what thought process she went through in that desperate split second. All she knows is that she found herself slipping between Napoleon and the door, leaning back against it and grabbing Napoleon's tie. Then, just as she sees a silhouette appear around the corner, she cuts off his strangled protest with her lips. He's a grifter down to his bones, adapting to the wild change of parameters with easy confidence. His warm hands come up to cup her face, body pressing forward into hers as Gaby tries to figure out their next move. Despite the heat between them on the dance floor, this is different, the presence of real danger enough to drive away any thought beyond selling the act, keeping an eye on whoever has stumbled across them. But as she leans back against the wall, with Napoleon angling forward, she finds he’s a bit too tall, his broad shoulders blocking her view.

"I can't see," she hisses against his lips, pushing on the back of his neck. He obeys the implied command, hunching down to kiss the side of her throat as Gaby lets her head tip back with a slightly louder than necessary moan. She nearly swears then, because the shadow is _still_ there, a sliver of human shape poking out beyond the corner wall.

"Can you tell who it is?" he breathes against her skin, hands settling around her waist. Gaby makes a negative hum, urging him back up so she can whisper into his ear.

"No, but they're not leaving. I think they're watching us." Gaby can hear the frantic hitch of her own voice.

"Door's still unlocked, if whoever's there checks it, we'll be made for sure." Napoleon pauses, dropping shallow kisses to the angle of her jaw. "How do you want to play this?"

Well, that is a great question. A few possibilities race through Gaby's mind. Simply leaving the door unlocked seems like a huge gamble. They could go confront the watcher, try to drive them off and hope that the situation doesn't escalate into suspicion. Or there's a third option. One which seems the surest bet.

"We should keep going. Make them feel awkward watching, so they leave." After Gaby says it, trying to sound more certain than she feels, Napoleon stills slightly against her. "If you're...if that's okay."

"Uh, yeah, it's fine. You sure?" he murmurs, drawing back to search her face, brows dropping in concern.

"I'm sure," she confirms, surprising herself with how true it is. The thought of kissing him, of having his hands on her body doesn't bother her. She trusts him, knows him better than any of the men she's found for casual flings during the past two years. The only thing that gives her pause is the thought of it happening for an audience. But if it's the safest option, she thinks she can work around that.

"You're in charge here, okay?" He waits for her to nod. "You put my hands wherever you need to, this is all up to you."

Gaby closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Then another.

 _Okay,_ she tells herself, _you can do this._

She forces herself to moan again, a noise which comes out a bit more strangled than aroused, but it's a start. Stealing a glance down the hall, she finds that the shadow is still there. Her body is thrumming with nerves, not lust, but Gaby tries to focus on the warmth of Napoleon's hands, the solid, steady heft of him at her front. Maybe with someone else she'd be trying to forget the body twined around hers, but when she lets herself look up at him, reminds herself that this is _Napoleon_ , the panic in her chest begins to ebb. He smiles down at her, a little rueful, and she returns it.

Cautiously, Gaby takes one of his hands and tugs it down, pausing for a fortifying moment with their joined digits on her hip, then she pulls him further, further until his warm fingers are curling around her thigh, just below the hem of her dress. He makes a low, questioning hum, thumb tracing a circle on her leg, and Gaby responds by releasing a breathless ‘yes’, loud enough that it's not just for him. Napoleon takes this as the permission that it is, breaking off from nuzzling at her neck with a soft grunt and standing up to his full height as his fingertips slip under her dress.

"Move," Gaby says into the base of his throat, tugging at his shoulders again.

"You're too damn short," he mutters peevishly. "My neck is killing me. I have no clue how Peril does this." For some reason, maybe just an overflowing of nervous energy and maybe the absurdity of their situation, Gaby can't contain a soft huff of laughter. Of all the things he could be complaining about right now, he chooses this. He grins down at her with a sort of wry camaraderie and Gaby smiles back despite herself.

"Pick me up, then," she says. She begins to lift her leg, the one his fingers have been slowly creeping up, and Napoleon takes the cue, wrapping his hands around the backs of her thighs. Then she finds herself making a soft ‘oh’ of surprise as he effortlessly scoops her up, pressing her into the wall as she clings to him. It puts her nearly at his height, able to glance past him and confirm that their audience is starting to shift uneasily.

"Still there?" Napoleon asks, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth as his hand returns to her hip, subtly encouraging her to rock against him in a motion which should hopefully look much more intimate than it feels.

"Mm-hmm," Gaby hums as she rakes her fingers through the back of his hair. "But I think he's getting nervous. A bit more should do the trick." She tips her head back against the wall with a soft whimper. Napoleon jolts slightly at the noise, forehead creasing as he watches her. But he catches up to her act, returning his mouth to the hinge of her jaw.

"You like that, huh?" Napoleon asks, voice suddenly husky and low, but loud enough that the tone, if not the words, should carry.

"Yes," Gaby groans, squirming in his arms. "Yes, please, come on," she adds in a needy pant which has Napoleon grinning in amusement, because they both know that this sort of begging is all an act. Napoleon gets into the game with a steady stream of murmured nothings, some of which are so ridiculous that Gaby has to bite her lip to stop from laughing. As he speaks, Gaby chances another look past him, hoping to find the hallway empty.

For a split second, when she discovers _two_ silhouettes at the end of the hall instead of one, Gaby freezes. Napoleon hisses an urgent ‘what?’ against her neck, but Gaby ignores him as she watches the figures. The shorter of the two, the one who's been spying on them, is shifting awkwardly, while the taller one, the newcomer, appears to be encouraging him to leave. After the shorter person stalks off, the taller one pauses, turning to look down the hall, his blond hair catching the foyer light.

Of course it's Illya. He freezes under her gaze, though his face is too shadowed for her to make out his expression. Gaby feels the panic dissipate from her body, nearly sighing in relief now that the interloper has left and Illya is here with them.

Napoleon, while waiting for her update, has continued moving against her, hand shifting on her hip, brushing a bit lower in what she assumes was a mistake, based on the way he yanks it back a moment later. Before she can fully gather her wits to explain, Napoleon leans in, mouth finding that one _spot_ behind her ear, and with the danger gone, under Illya's captivated stare, suddenly the maelstrom of _want_ from the dance floor comes flooding back. Gaby moans at the spark of heat which starts at Napoleon's mouth on her skin and travels low, low through her body, unable to look away from Illya as he watches her, squirming and wanting at Napoleon's touch. Her brain conjures up a sudden flash of an image, of Illya _watching_ them but in a very different context.

She hears a breathless, quivering gasp. It takes a full second for her to realize that the noise has come from _her._

"Gaby?" Napoleon murmurs, breath skating hot across her skin, and Gaby only barely manages to bite her own lip as a hoarse, needy, "Napo—" tries to escape her mouth. She chokes it back into a whimper, stunned at her own reaction. At the noise Illya shifts, like he wants to stride towards them, but then he stills again. In the half light, she can just see his mouth dropping open. After an endless moment, he turns on his heel and vanishes around the corner.

"Gaby, what is it?" Napoleon asks with a firm edge to his voice. He pulls his mouth away from her skin, thank God, and Gaby closes her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and trying to silence her overactive mind.

"It's, it's fine. Illya scared him off," Gaby stammers, pushing at his chest until Napoleon returns her to her own, now wobbly, legs. "Um," she adds, very intelligently, as she looks anywhere but at him and licks her lips, which was a mistake because she just tastes _him._ "Here, give me the camera. I'll take the pictures."

"Okay?" It's probably meant as a statement, but the confused, rising tone of his voice gives the word the distinct air of a question. There's a soft rustle of fabric as he retrieves the tiny camera from his jacket, passing it wordlessly to her. But before she slips fully into the office, he speaks again. "Gaby, are you—?"

"Just keep watch," she hisses. Once she closes the door behind her, she sighs in relief, shaking herself and trying to slow her racing heart and ignore the faint heat between her legs.

 _What,_ she thinks, _the_ fuck _was that?_

 

* * *

 

 

As Napoleon gets dressed the next morning, intending to leave the film from last night in the dead drop for Illya to develop, he muses over what happened. Gaby had been _quiet_ once they got back to their room. And then, when he’d stayed quiet himself, she’d snapped at him to stop making things weird. But both of them were cowards when it came to actually talking about things that mattered, so nothing had been said, despite Napoleon absolutely dying to know what the hell it had meant when Gaby suddenly came alive in his arms as she _melted_ against him. He would absolutely love to know what the fuck to do about that, other than try desperately to not fixate on her strangled moan which had sounded an awful lot like the first two syllables of his name.

He puts an ear to the bathroom door, confirming that Gaby is still in the shower, then goes to find his shoes. Out of sheer stubbornness, he tries to repeat his _it's just a mission_ mantra. It almost makes him laugh. He's not sure if anything in this trio has ever been _just a mission,_ even in Rome. They're too tangled up; three strong personalities, all fiercely independent, who have been forced to spend far too much time together, squabbling and flirting and everything in between while they struggle to deal with the newness of not being alone.

Despite it all, though, Napoleon wants this. He still doesn't know where things are going between him and Gaby, if anywhere, and he has spent the last month refusing to let himself even contemplate what happened with Illya in New York, but these people, these obstinate, ridiculous, infuriating people are _his_. Whatever happens, they're the first good thing he's had in far too long. He just hopes that Gaby won't shut him out.

Just as he prepares to head out the door, he is saved the trouble when their room service once again arrives with a large Russian in tow.

"Miguel's faking again?" Napoleon asks blandly.

Illya shakes his head. "Old Maria's daughter is getting married so she takes day off, and Theo had to go to town because Hector bought wrong kind of butter, kitchen staff are very upset."

"Oh, that Hector..." Napoleon's wry quip receives no response apart from Illya unloading the trays. "I've got the film from last night for you. Thanks for the save, by the way."

Illya's entire body twitches. "Is no problem," he begins, a bit too casually, "he was about to leave anyways, was starting to get uncomfortable with..." Illya bites his lip, flushing slightly. "—with your performance." The look Illya fixes him with is, to Napoleon's surprise, not accusatory, not betrayed. It's intensely curious, maybe a little speculative. Napoleon palms the back of his own neck, knowing that it's a blatant nervous tell but unable to stop himself under Illya's stare. Inexplicably, Illya's mouth quirks into something that couldn't quite be called a smile, but definitely has a touch of amusement.

"She's very short, yes?" he asks, gesturing towards Napoleon's wayward hand. "Sore neck."

"Uh, yeah," Napoleon huffs, faintly stunned at Illya's good humour about the absurd situation. "Yeah, bit of a nuisance."

"Eh, at first, maybe. But it's not too bad. Next time you should pick her up sooner." Illya grins then, a real grin, while Napoleon gapes at the implication. With the sort of smug playfulness that Illya can only pull off when he's in his highest spirits, he sets a hand on Napoleon's shoulder and adds "As I said, you can be very slow learner with her. Don't worry, though, Cowboy. We will make a good spy out of you someday."

Suddenly Napoleon thinks back to that one time, the time he's never let himself think about in the month since it happened.

To that time in New York, that wonderful winter day, after Gaby had danced herself to sleep and Illya had scooped her up and tucked her under a blanket on the sofa with an expression that was so thoroughly besotted with the woman in his arms that Napoleon had felt heartsick with envy, though he's not sure which one he was more envious of.

To the drinks that he and Illya had shared afterwards, a comfortable warmth settling over them as they slumped into the other couch, sipping glass after glass as their ties and tongues gradually loosened. They'd talked freely, for maybe the first time ever, roaming through topics but always coming back to the same one: Gaby. About almost anything else, the conversation turned into a debate, but about their shared partner they were in accord.

To the way Illya had looked at him, after Napoleon had made a comment, though he doesn't remember exactly what, about how Gaby was utterly remarkable, brilliant, or some other superlative which he'd meant with complete sincerity. Illya had stared at him, then, and Napoleon suddenly worried that he'd said too much, tipped his hand and revealed the feelings which he'd spent so much effort tamping down. But a smile had flitted across the other man's face, a less cautious version of the look he'd given Napoleon and Gaby when they'd been dancing.

To the unexpected motion of Illya setting his hand on Napoleon's shoulder, the same hand, the same shoulder as now. The blond man began leaning closer, blue eyes flicking down and up, then down again, where they'd stayed.

To the press of his lips. Soft, a little hesitant, but with an unshakable certainty which Napoleon, at the time, had forced himself to attribute to the drinks, knowing that if he let himself think that Illya had meant it, really meant it, he wouldn't have been able to pull away.

Back in another hotel room, on another continent, Illya's hand gives his shoulder a squeeze which seems to be intended as reassurance, if an overly heavy version. The man has a very poor concept of his own strength, sometimes.

"Illya?"

Gaby strides out of the bedroom to stand before them, giving Illya a cautious look as he removes his hand from Napoleon's shoulder.

"Hello, Chop Shop," he says fondly. "How did it go last night, with pictures?" he asks, holding up the roll of film.

"Good, I had enough time to get all the pages of the guestbook," Gaby replies, seeming to relax a bit, as if she's chosen to take Illya's nonchalance on good faith. "When can you develop them?"

"This afternoon, should get a break. Assuming that Hector gets the right butter this time."

"Who is—?" Gaby frowns in confusion.

"I'll explain later," Napoleon says, grinning, feeling strangely giddy as he gazes between his partners and almost lets himself hope.


	6. Chapter 6

"You know, that was rather anticlimactic."

Gaby turns to give Napoleon an incredulous look as he steps out onto the balcony. "You would rather all of our cases end in some absurd gun battle?"

"Never said anticlimactic was a _bad_ thing. Feels too easy, though. We didn't even get to do the arrests, Waverly swooped in. No-one here even knows who we really are." Napoleon shrugs. "Part of me keeps expecting something to go wrong."

"Illya seems to think plenty went wrong," Gaby replies with a snort. "What was he muttering under his breath after Waverly told him he'd have to work a few more days to keep his cover?"

"Let's just say," Napoleon drawls, "that it was very educational. I learned quite a few new Russian profanities today."

Gaby lets out a huff of laughter, propping her elbows on the railing next to Napoleon and watching his throat bob as he takes a sip of Scotch. After he sets the tumbler on the railing, Gaby reaches over, leaning into his side as she plucks the glass from his hand and steals a drink.

"Not enough that you take my money," Napoleon retorts, referencing their covers, "but I can't even drink in peace."

"Never heard you complain, Häschen."

Napoleon grins down at her, eyes crinkling around the corners, body twitching with silent laughter. Gaby finds herself returning his smile, basking in the combination of the successful mission, the obscenely overpriced liquor, and the company. Her shoulder is still pressed against his arm, feeling his muscles shift as he leans a little further into her touch. Turning back to the sunset, Gaby sighs with contentment.

"Tired?" Napoleon asks.

"Relieved," Gaby corrects. "Glad it's all over."

There's a brief pause, which Gaby takes to be the start of a comfortable silence, but then Napoleon speaks again, voice oddly hesitant.

"Happy to go back to London? Back to how things were?" His tone is deliberately casual.

"No," Gaby says, shaking her head. "Just happy we're out of danger. Not looking forward to going back. London is too..."

"Cold?" Napoleon supplies, and after Gaby nods in agreement, he continues. "You know, it's a good thing I sprung you from Berlin. I can't imagine how miserable you must've been with the winters. It's been—" but then he breaks off, like he's caught himself about to say something unintended, which instantly piques Gaby's curiosity.

"It's been what?" As she glances back up, she finds him already looking down at her, a soft expression on his face. His eyes flick away for a moment, he bites his lip, and then he returns her gaze, mouth tilting into a suggestion of a smile.

"It's been nice seeing you here," he says with an odd hitch of his shoulders which looks like an attempt at a casual shrug, though his tone is sincere. "The past month in London, New York, you always looked like you were freezing. You're so happy in the sun."

Now Gaby is the one who looks away, suddenly aware of the warmth in his expression as he smiles down at her, the odd, fluttering sensation in her chest at the earnest affection she finds there. He shifts slightly, and the brush of his arm against her shoulder sends sparks up her spine. Part of her wonders when he became so attuned to her moods, that he could sense the need for warmth which she's been doing her best to hide, and another part of her suggests that ever since he put that plate of truffle risotto before her, though she'd said nothing about being hungry, he's always done this. Under the artifice of the careless playboy, he's always been quietly caring. Always _gotten_ her in some innate way that she can't quite pin down.

“Besides,” he continues, smirking, as if needing to lighten the mood. “In New York I’m pretty sure that Peril and I were moments away from hypothermia half the time, we always ended up giving you our coats.”

“And I kept telling you,” Gaby retorts, “to keep your coats. I didn't need them.”

“Of course, you just stood around shivering and looking like you wanted to murder someone because you _weren’t_ cold. I swear to God, between you and Peril, I’ve somehow ended up with the two most stubborn partners on the planet.” But despite the grumbling, he’s smiling, eyes dancing.

"Well, you'd better get used to it." Gaby nudges him with her shoulder.

"Yeah?" Napoleon's eyebrows flick upwards in surprise.

"What?" Gaby asks. "You thought I'd let you get away? I've finally got you trained, Häschen. You're mine." Napoleon gives her a look at the last sentence, surprised, cautious. Like no-one's said anything like that to him in a long time, told him that he belonged. Like he _likes_ it. To cut through the intensity of the moment, Gaby reaches across him and steals another sip of his drink, making Napoleon snort with laughter. Around the levity, though, Gaby thinks about it, about what it would be like to _lose_ him, and her chest tightens in panic; a sensation she thought she'd learned to stop feeling, after her third foster family sent her back. She realizes that what she said is more deeply true than she'd meant it; he is hers, has earned his place in her life, and she will fight to keep him.

"You okay?"

She shakes her head, staring down at the ring on her finger again. "Just...don't run off. I..." She wants to say so many things, too revealing for her wary heart to release yet. I need yous and I want yous and things she hasn't let herself feel in so long, hasn't had anyone she could entrust with such vulnerability. "I'm glad you're here," she eventually says. "I'm glad you're the one who found me."

"Me too."

"Besides, I doubt Illya would've made me dinner. And he would never wear that awful apron."

Napoleon laughs, an earnest, surprised bark that's so different from the cultivated chuckles he normally limits himself to. Gaby finds herself wanting to hear it again, to learn other ways to coax it from him. So, she supposes she really will have to keep him around for a while. Long enough for her to succeed in her new personal mission.

 

* * *

 

 

One week later, Gaby finds herself sitting across from Illya at the kitchen table of Napoleon’s London flat. When they have a chance to recover, post-mission (the breathless trip from Rome to Istanbul turns out to have been the exception, not the rule), they still seem to end up revolving around each other, sharing meals and company and whatever corners of their lives they can offer. Gaby has tried to make a few other friends, but there's so much she can't share, months of her life buried behind red tape, that personal connection is an exercise in offering the feeble scraps of misinformation and vaguery that she can conjure. It's a relief to be with Illya and Napoleon, back with two of the only people who can share her whole life.

"No, no, I don't know where you get these ideas, Cowboy, but you are very wrong about this," Illya says, gesticulating broadly with one overlarge hand. Gaby tries to remember what they've been arguing about before she got bored and stopped listening. Knowing them, it was probably something political.

"I 'get these ideas' because they make sense, Peril," Napoleon retorts as he finishes plating their breakfast and slides the dishes onto the table. "Now shut up and eat your French toast."

Illya grumbles something in Russian, beyond Gaby's knowledge but undoubtedly rude based on the way Napoleon snickers. Nevertheless, he complies, tucking into the food with gusto as Napoleon turns back to the counter. Gaby begins on her own French toast, humming with pleasure at the syrupy sweet confection. Then, placing a hand on her shoulder, Napoleon sets a mug of coffee before her, and Gaby murmurs her thanks.

It's only when Illya coughs, eyes bulging in surprise as he chokes on a mouthful of coffee, that Gaby pays attention to what she actually said: "Danke, Häschen."

"Alright there, Peril?" Napoleon drawls as he settles into the chair between them.

"Fine," Illya sputters. "I just—" His eyes dart between her and Napoleon, and Gaby feels herself blush. Napoleon, on the other hand, is grinning wickedly, enjoying Illya's shock.

"You two aren't the only ones who can use nicknames, Peril," Gaby points out.

"Sorry, of course." Illya glances between them once more, then shakes his head, mouth corners twitching in a sly smile as he looks at Napoleon. " _Häschen?_ Really? Of all the nicknames, you are _bunny rabbit?"_

If he's trying to embarrass Napoleon, the American completely fails to take the bait, instead just shrugging. "It's grown on me. Besides, whatever Gaby wants."

Illya purses his lips, letting out a soft huff as he nods in agreement. "Yes, good point. Whatever Gaby wants." He says it like it's a basic fact of life, like something unquestionable, assumed. Whatever Gaby wants.

Gaby looks between them; this bear of a Russian who takes her shopping for pretty dresses and who might be the gentlest man she's ever known, this fox of an American who has stayed quietly true and trustworthy since day one. They have turned to each other again, caught up in some discussion of popular music, gesticulating wildly with those two pairs of strong hands which have held her and comforted her and spun her while she danced. She's still not sure exactly what they are to each other, where they're going, but she's glad that, out of anyone who could've barged into her life and turned it upside down, she found these two.


	7. Epilogue

**_Eleven months later_ **

 

"Could you bring me—" Gaby gestures vaguely with one arm thrown over her head, above the back of the couch, too comfortable to move.

"What am I, your butler?" Napoleon retorts from somewhere to her right. Above her, Illya chuckles, absently carding his fingers through Gaby's hair where it spills across his thighs.

"Come on," Gaby whines, though she'd never admit to whining. "I'm tired. Unpacking is hard work."

"Says the woman whose clothes required most of the day to unpack."

"That's Illya's fault," Gaby says, grinning up at the man in question. "He keeps buying me things."

"I didn't hear you complain last week, at the new Givenchy," Illya points out, eyes never leaving the Pushkin novel that Gaby bought him.

"He's got a point, you know," Napoleon adds as his head pops over the back of the couch, into Gaby's view, dangling her drink maddeningly out of reach. "Now, ask nicely," he chides.

"If you don't give that glass to me right now, I will brain you to death with that nice present you got me."

Illya sighs the sigh of a parent who has just decided that they won't be able to avoid intervening in some petty dispute. "I thought we all agreed, no weapons for Christmas."

"Not my fault that spanners are so versatile," Gaby retorts. "Now hurry up," she says to Napoleon, sticking her hand out expectantly.

"Fine," Napoleon concedes as he presses the tumbler into her eager grasp.

“Thank you, Häschen,” Gaby murmurs sweetly as he rolls his eyes with more affection than annoyance. Then he begins walking around to the front of the couch, waiting for Gaby to pick up her feet before he settles at the other corner.

"But if you want hot chocolate later, you're getting it yourself, missy." His fingers wrap around one of Gaby's ankles and he absently tugs her feet into his lap.

"Deal," Gaby says before taking a sip of whiskey. Resting the glass on her stomach, she flops back against Illya's legs, who responds by petting her hair, still absorbed in his book. Napoleon traces an aimless circle on the bare skin of her foot, dipping dangerously close to the arch, and Gaby responds with an irritated huff, poking his thigh with her toe.

"Don't you dare," she says, lifting her head to glare at him.

"Or what?"

"If you tickle me now I'll spill this nice, expensive Scotch that Waverly got us as a housewarming present. Think of what a waste that would be."

"Or she might just kick you in the head," Illya drawls before licking one finger and carefully turning to the next page. "Like last week during sparring, even if that was accident. And you would deserve it this time too."

"I can think of much better punishments," Napoleon retorts, flashing a comedically lecherous grin at Illya, who rolls his eyes.

"Ask Gaby, maybe if you're good. I'm too tired from moving."

"Maybe if he's  _ bad," _ Gaby corrects as she takes another sip of Scotch. "But Illya's right, it's been a long day.”

Napoleon just makes a soft hum of concession, while Gaby tips her head back again and sighs happily when Illya resumes wending through her hair. In the comfortable silence, she looks around their new flat. The fire will need a new log soon, crumbled remains of the last one glowing between the firedogs, casting a faint orange light on the spruce tree which Illya dragged in from somewhere, after Napoleon made some comment about wanting a real Christmas tree. It's wet and grey outside, the sort of miserable London winter that Gaby loathes. Hopefully their next case will take them somewhere tropical. She finds, though, that she doesn't want to leave just yet, not when it's toasty warm and she has her partners close by.

Then a thought occurs to Gaby.

“You two finished setting up the bed, right?"

"Yep," Napoleon confirms.

"Did you put the sheets on?"

"Um." Napoleon glances to Illya, who hides behind his book to avoid Gaby's incredulous stare.

"And yet you found time to unpack the liquor," Gaby says, grinning at Napoleon's unabashed shrug.

"Excuse me if I've got my priorities straight, Gabs." He nods towards the glass in her hand. "You seem to be benefitting from my efforts."

Gaby just rolls her eyes, something she’s done a lot of ever since these two found her. Something she fully intends to continue doing for a long time to come.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, eternal thanks and love to my beta, who graciously puts up with my nonsense, and yells at me until I stop cutting scenes. If not for her, this fic would be noticeably shorter and significantly less coherent.
> 
> And secondly, a huge thanks to Kathi for everything. Yes, everything.
> 
> And thirdly, to Ister, I hope this at least somewhat satisfies your prompt. I wrote it, then about two days before the deadline I had a minor panic over whether it was too shippy or not case-focused enough and nearly talked myself out of posting it until I pointed out to myself that I didn't have enough time to rewrite it. So, I really hope this is at least some of what you wanted with your utterly delightful prompt.


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